#roach.writes

[marquisdefag]

𝐆𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐓𝟎𝟐 𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐒 𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐃 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐀 𝐌𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐀𝐆𝐄

A brief message leads to the exchanging of briefs.

18+ / explicit / age-gap AU / 50k+ / please read tags thoroughly!

co-written with @pervpark

[marquisdefag]

y’all who love romantic ghostsoap don’t appreciate necrophilia with them as much as you should.

ghost who is overcome with grief for the sergeants death that he acts on whim, too stricken to think morally as he tugs up his mask and presses scarred lips against growing cold ones. slides his tongue against the seal of soaps lips, wanting to taste the man for the last time before his corpse is burned and his ashes spread. ghost making out with soaps unmoving mouth, trying to coax a reaction, hoping to feel one last warmth breath from the corpse, eager to feel the heat of life that’s become an addiction for the lieutenant over the last several months. simon who worships soap’s limp corpse, every last inch. simon who’s pressing his fingers and tongue into the 5cm bullet wound that stole his friend, his partner, his sergeant. wants to taste and swallow what leaks out the back of the man’s head, never having felt closer to johnny than in this moment.

i could go on and on, but simon making love to soaps cadaver is romantic as fuck and yall are pussies.

[marquisdefag]

“sometimes i think you’re asking to be hit, sergeant.”

“by you? any day, sir.”

and that’s how john mactavish finds himself being fucked over his desk by simon riley, the big brute of a man who barks more than he talks and looks ragin’ most of the fucking time.

they don’t kiss or undress fully but soap’s trousers stretch around his thighs, boxers half way tugged down, fuzzy ass on perfect display for the lieutenant; who’s heavy cock sticks out and droops down from the open zip on his camos.

it’s all spit, smeared over johnny’s asshole, over simon’s prick, not enough to help ease the breach or to quell the tight burn that comes when ghost’s pushing himself in one long stride — balls becoming flush with the sergeants backside — but neither care.

soap takes every inch of ghosts fat cock while he grips onto the edge of the desk, gloved hands holding him tightly by the waist as he’s tugged back & forth on the older man’s dick.

by the time they’re both finished, simon’s prick is chaffed red and sore whilst johnny’s hole flexes in and out, leaking two loads with a mix of his own blood.

“still wantin’ to be hit, mactavish?” ghost grunts while tucking his softening cock away.

“any day, Lt.”

[marquisdefag]

𝐒𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐌𝐘 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐋 ; 𝐖𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐌𝐘 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓

chapter 1 — dear comrades

A year after Gary Sanderson’s death, Simon Riley is nothing but a dark shadow skulking towards his own demise, but a Scotsman with a crackin’ smile and a tongue like a lock knife may be the saving grace that the Ghost needs — if the past stops trying to haunt him.

written by @marquisdefag & @pervpark

[marquisdefag]

had to write a wee thing because i’ll go insane if i don’t

💀🧼 nsfw / mdni

"You're trouble, MacTavish."

Skilled hands do quick work of Ghost's belt and trouser buttons, his black cargo pants dropping to around his ankles as Soap stares up at him with smug accomplishment. The sound of passing footsteps doesn't deter both men from the task at hand as Johnny tugs out Simon's flaccid length, leaning close to smell the days worth of crotch sweat and unwiped piss drips.

Wetting his lips, Soap doesn't waste a second in taking the Lieutenant's cock into his mouth, feeling it engorge with blood around his tongue & teeth, it swelling thickly down his throat as he tries to suckle around the fullness.

Ghost's hands slip into the overgrown locks of Johnny's warhawk, fingers twisting into the roots until he has a good, tight grip of his subordinates hair. A wet garble of encouragement comes from below and Simon's grunting, thrusting his hips forward, stuffing his meat even further down the tunnel of Soap's constricting throat.

[marquisdefag]

an old fic idea that i really need to finish based after the events of MW3 / Soaps death. 375 words. Grief & angst.

Here are Johnny’s shirts. They hang unworn for four months. Unworn but not unused. Each night a different shirt is picked and returned the next morning, neatly hung on cheap plastic hangers on his picked side of their shared closet. It became a ritual the first week after spreading his ashes — which Simon can barely remember, only small blips and the feeling of I’m not ready. He knows it won’t last forever but the smell of Johnny, not just of his deodorant or cologne, but of him, would surely seep out from the fabrics the more they’re used, so each night, a different article of clothing is selected and Simon sits, crossed legged on their bed, breathing in the scent of his Soap in the hopes of prolonging whatever remains of him.

When he tries to return to work, nobody offers condolences but he feels the stares, the sympathy that radiates off everyone when they look at him, small nods and empathetic smiles and Simon chooses to take another week off, burying himself under half whiskeys, cigarette douts & reruns of Still Game because fuck, if he doesn’t appreciate it more now than ever.

Here is where Johnny would rest his head, curved over the space of Simon’s thighs on the couch, large calloused fingers sweeping through brown locks and stubbly shaved sides, Johnny’s eyes on the tv, Simon’s on him. Always on him. Taking in the small details because he fucking knew if it wasn’t him, it would be Soap. Price. Gaz. Roach. Any of’em. So Simon took in the details. Imprinted Johnny’s flaws, imperfections, the small acne pock scars, the broken bump of his nose that curves to the left, the deep scar across his chin, the patches of facial hair that don’t grow in thick like the rest of his face, the tiny scar from an eyebrow piercing that Simon definitely never got a chance to see — and never will. And he stores them. Keeps all those tiny wee imperfections locked away, letting them collect dust until he’s sitting exhausted against the bathroom door, knuckles bloody with another mirror broken, wondering why it wasn’t fucking him.

[marquisdefag]

𝐆𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐓𝟎𝟐 𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐒 𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐃 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐀 𝐌𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐀𝐆𝐄

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟏𝟎 • Second Breakfast

𝐀𝐆𝐄 𝐆𝐀𝐏 𝐀𝐔 / 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐃𝐎𝐕𝐄 / 𝐄𝐗𝐏𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐓 🔞🪦🕊️

please read the tags thoroughly on AO3 before reading!

[marquisdefag]

“Turn the TV up, please?” Lev mumbles from where he lays on his side, head pressed against the inside of his left upper arm on the sofa. He smiles coaxingly at Jude, showing his teeth, a dumb grin that only him, Roma & Gideon get to see, one that’s filled with love and safety, an unmasking of affection.

Sabbath | 1.3k Words | Explicit | Written by Toby

A blonde boy sprawls out on the thrift store couch, the seemingly endless hours of Summer vacation stretch before him with boundless possibilities and big, green eyes stare without focus at the scenes playing out on the screen.

Saturday Morning Cartoons | 1.6k Words | Explicit | Written by Ryan